A few months ago, a friend sent me an invitation to something called, “Pinterest”. Have you heard of it? I didn’t know what it was at first so I did what I always do when I don’t know what something is….nothing. (I put the I in initiative.) Then I got another invitation so I took the next step, set up an account under my alias, Muffintopmommy, and promptly forgot all about it. Til one day a few weeks ago when a funtastic muffintopper pointed me to a recipe blog called skinnytaste (nom, nom, low fat goodness!) whose glorious recipe pictures led me back to……Pinterest.

People? 2012 is the year I met my personal crack cocaine.

It was a circuitous route, but like all addicts, I perservered. And once I got there? It was the point of no return—I was ALL in. So now what? Naturally, Iwanna do like most good junkies do…. give others a taste and suck you all down my wayward path. That’s right. After being asked several times last week by friends what Pinterest is, I feel it is now my obligation to spread the good word. (I’m not going door to door. That’s just silly. It’s January in New Hampshire and this territory is owned by Girl Scouts right now. Have you ever tried to cross a sash clad, ponytailed, four foot tall ninja carrying an order form for the holy grail of minty cookies? Don’t. Just don’t. Just smile and give them all your money.)

Wanna come along? Consider this Pinterest 101. Right here. Right now. Time to woman up. This isn’ t for sissies. And it can be confusing. After one friend emailed me asking me to explain it and why it was so addictive, I sent her an email that I thought made sense, to which she responded:

“Ok, I think I kind of get it.  I can pin things to my board and they will stay there if I want to go back to them?  Do you share stuff with others?  I take it back…I don’t think I get it at all.”

She seemed down, so I emailed her back, “You is smart. You is kind. You is important.” Thank you, Pinterest, for reminding me of that phenomenal quote from The Help! I love you Aibileen, I love you!

People who are smart, kind, and important still often can’t grasp the concept of Pinterest because you see, it’s one of those things that’s harder to explain than it is to actually do. I know that sounds weird, but my best recommendation is to jump in with both feet and try it. You do need an invitation from someone who’s already on Pinterest. I know, it’s super exclusive. That’s why I am surprised I got an invite. (But really…if you need an invite, email me and I’ll send you one.)

So here’s my best stab at ‘splaining it. Pinterest is a virtual pinboard. Did you ever cut out pictures from a magazine of things you liked… a fun outfit? A wedding dress? A cool looking kitchen? A yummy recipe? And pin them to an actual corkboard? (Yeah, me neither, but I kinda wish I did.) I hear people who aren’t like me (read:organized) do, or they carefully file these clippings away for future reference/inspiration.

Well now, even disorganized dopes with no initiative can display everything we love! The really crack coke part of it is, you can follow what others display too, and “repin” what they have displayed on your corkboards. And you can have dozens and dozens of corkboards showcasing anything and everything your muffin top desires! For example, I have categories like, “The Yummies” for recipes, “The funny” for hilarious sayings, “Shoes and clothes and shoes, oh my!” for houses (Der, clothes and shoes! Just making sure you’re paying attention–this is so not important!) ,  and “Let’s Get Physical” for exercise tips. I even have a board called, “People I Want To Have A Beer With” and “People I’m Allowed To Cheat On The Hubs With”! Calm down! Stop calling me Newt. It’s just for funnies and let’s face it, Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights isn’t into me hasn’t returned any of my  calls, text messages, or emails.

And who doesn’t love a trip down memory lane? Someone’s pin totally brought me back and led me to the greatness of this 70′s commercial:

Time for Timer!

Makes me teary. And inspiration? Is at your fingertips, my friends!

Can you even guess where I found this fat-tastic weight loss inspiration? Who needs to pay for Weight Watchers! Pfft!

 So pin those yummy recipes, Julia! Showcase the most fashionable outfits you’ll never fit into or be able to buy, Gisele! Pine away for that perfect porch to have a cocktail on, Martha! Be inspired to conquer your muffin top, um, Muffintopmommy!

See, Pinterest is almost like the life we wish we had or everything we aspire to be: in shape, well dressed, well spoken, well intentioned, grammatically correct, repurposing, funny, inspirational, selves……..who drive fantastic cars, cook like famous chefs, sip gorgeous cocktails on sweeping verandas whilst taking time to smell the perfectly pruned hydrangeas.

Mama can dream. Mama.can.dream. Don’t we all deserve a break, if only virtual, from cars covered in winter’s salt, shirts we bought because they were on clearance at Target, and humdrum dinners we could assemble in our sleep?

But hey, just don’t blame me if you’re soon writing status updates on your Facebook page like I did last week:

Dear Pinterest, thanks for making me hungry, hate my clothes, and want a new baby. I would complain, but your inspirational messages prevent me from not appreciating the wonderful kids I have, the (mediocre) food I cook, and (nerd herd) clothes I wear! Well played, Pinterest, well played.

Don’t hate the playah, just hate the game.

**You can even pin blogs! But apparently putting a pinterest button on my blog so you can follow me or pin my blog….is above my pay grade. I tried. And failed. On Pinterest, I’m much more talented…..so if you’re looking for me? Try there. And if anyone finds a blog post giving the 411 on that, pin it baby, pin it!

Whew!

I’m happy to report I survived Black Friday.

Granted, I was in my snowman pajamas snuggled under the covers sawing wood til the late hour of half past 8, but I am just so grateful my 2 year old didn’t pepper spray me and no one stepped on my face for some Wheaties here at Casa de Muffin Top. I know others did not fare so well.

I was worried. You just never know where danger lurks.

I love me some bargains but oooh, the thought of getting out of my toasty roasty bed after hosting T-giving (that’s right…..and opening that can of cranberry sauce was the last straw…it totally did me in…)was too much for any 50% off wafflemaker. Unless Coach Taylor was up for grabs, I was just not ready to do battle with the people of Walmart. I’m klutzy on a good day–half asleep with gravy coursing through my veins–you know I wouldda gotten taken out by one of those scooter people cuz I’d be too slow to pole vault away into a display of Faded Glory madness.

So here I sit. Not one Christmas present purchased. Not.a.one.

And the overacievers on Facebook are stressing me out. (You know who you are, you crazy little elves, you. Bastards!)

You know the ones–they’re putting status updates like this up:

Tree trimmed? Check! Lights up? Check! Christmas quilts on all the beds? Check! Holiday afghans knitted for the senior center? Check! Christmas presents for friends, family, bus driver, teachers, mailman, street sweeper, babysitter, dog walker, newspaper mystery delivery person, check out girl at supermarket, brother’s girlfriend’s stepfather’s sister purchased, wrapped, and under tree? Check, check, and cha-eck! Gifts from toy drive for needy children wrapped and dropped to shelter?  Check. *

Ugh oh. I knew I should have started my shopping in 2010!

I’m a terrible person! The worst! A total procrastinator. I have nothing for my kids! For the needy kids! For the hubs! The teacher! The seniors! The distant almostsortakinda relative! The butcher! The baker! The candlestick maker!

 Think, think, think. I can do this. I’m not stressed. I’m not.

See now that I’m off my pneumonia meds, I can hit the sauce.

Can you have a beer while you shop at Walmart?

NOOOOOOOOOO. (You really should be able to. It might take the sting out of some of the scenery. No really. Seriously.)

UMMMM. I DON'T SEE ANY POURING GOING ON, WALMART LADIES. SO NO DICE!

But I can in my family room. While I’m on my computer. Shopping til I drop in my snowman jammies! I can google for coupon codes with my best pepper spray game face on. GRRRRRRRRRRR. I can throw my muffin top around the family room and pretend to knock down little old ladies for wii games while I’m on toyrus.com! JOY TO THE WORLD! WINNING! It’s the reason for the season, yo!

CRUSHING CYBERSPACE FROM THE COUCH. HUZZAH! PARTY SNACKS AND BEERS INCLUDED. AND MAYBE SOME RHONJ RERUNS. ANYONE KNOW WHERE I CAN GET ME SOME CHINCHILLA??

I can have hot chocolate with fluffed marshmallow vodka while I swoop in and crush some ebay auctions.

Hellz yeah.

Don’t –don’t even try to grab up the last blender at amazon.com or I will cut you. I will. I will find your cyber arse and cut you with my sword mean unChristmasy, un Jimmy Stewart words.

It’s holiday time. It’s on. Good tidings to all and to all a good figh–I mean, night. Night!

*If this was your status update though, let’s be friends! Really! You can help people like me!

Okay, okay. I was *just kidding* about Coach Taylor call me. I love the hubs. Muah!

Here is last year’s post if you missed it last year or care to read it again:

After my Jillian Michael’s post and the passionate responses it provoked, and with Mother’s Day here, I can’t seem to get this whole motherhood thing off my mind. (Of course, it could be the three boys five and under hanging from my leg, refusing to let me TINKLE alone.)

There was a time I never thought I’d be a mom. And Mother’s Day, though I have a mother I love dearly, was an excruciating reminder I might never be one.  And yet, it was all around me. A painful larger than life indication that something wasn’t quite right with me and no one (no experts, no talk shows, no magazines, no books, and no well meaning friends and relatives…) seemed to know how to fix it. Not a Harvard degreed doctor. Not my ever loving husband. Least of all me. And for that? I felt like a bit of a failure, even though I realize it was undeserved.

I’m not a numbers girl so I don’t know what the statistics are. I have no clue how many women can’t get pregnant who want to get pregnant. Not sure they even track it. It’s pretty personal for a lot of women. After my first miscarriage my ob-gyn told me she had had one too, and that having one was sort of like being in a secret sorority you never wanted to join.  If you can’t get pregnant, or you can but you keep miscarrying, you feel like you’re the only one. And when it seems like every friend, co-worker, and neighbor is having babies, though you’re genuinely happy for them, it stings that you can’t share in the happiness and good fortune.

So when I drove home (in the midst of my years long bout of infertility) with my husband after attending a wedding out of state and the toll collecter innocently beamed, “Happy Mother’s Day!”, I knew he meant well, but I just slunk deeper into my seat after wanly offering a “thanks”. (Can you imagine the line that would have formed behind me had I attempted to set him straight?) It’s the Northeast. We might have been able to hug it out in the midwest, but not the Northeast!

Sometimes, I think it’s the people who mean well who make it worse. It would always seem like it was some woman who had like 37 kids and got pregnant every time her husband glanced her way who would say stuff like, “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out!”  (Well, how do you know? You are fertile fricking Mrytle running your own personal Von Trapp family!) After a while, it starts to sound glib. You’re like, “Platitude Patty. Shut it! You don’t know from standing on your head, facing east, during a full moon, every odd numbered day, while experimenting with shots of Robitussin trying to get prego!”

Then there’s the person who assumes you have no kids by choice, like the random new dentist you go to take care of your TEETH lest the rest of you fall apart too, and he asks if you have kids and replies…”Yeah, we didn’t want to have kids either. Good for you!” (Um, no? Assume much? Just….no. Good for YOU, not me. P.S. Your getting to know you new patient spiel needs work.)

The armchair doctors who offer you unsolicited “advice” at cookouts are fun. It’s always a good time when someone you barely know brazenly blurts after a few adult beverages, “Wow. You’ve been married for a while. What are you waiting for, a fire? Why don’t you have some kids already!” (Really? Why don’t I duct tape your mouth shut, moron. Never mind that some people don’t want kids, which is perfectly fine, but either way, if you don’t want them or are having a hard time getting pregnant, not your biz, blowhard!)

I had a long, strange trip to motherhood, but I learned what my marriage and I are made of. The challenge didn’t drive us apart, it brought us closer together. We never gave up on each other, or on our goal of becoming parents. Regardless of how I got here and who I had to encounter along the way, I am so honored to be a mom. My kids don’t define who I am as a person, but I do believe they make me a better one. Through them, I see things for the first time all over again. It’s shocking and fantastic how they each have their own distinct, awesome little personalities. Their energy is boundless. Their love is limitless, generous, and unconditional. It was a crazy road to get here, and I’m so thankful I made it. I feel lucky and blessed.

But I’m honored to be their mom every day, not just on Mother’s Day. And so while I love the day and enjoy the special attention, every Mother’s Day my heart tugs for those who can’t celebrate, but want to so badly. To those women I want to say, there are people who get it, and don’t ever give up. The secret sorority is larger than we’ll ever know. No one person knows what the future brings (and if they say they do they’re full of S*&^!). If you’re like me, the path to get where you’re going might take more twists and turns than you ever imagined. No one has that crystal ball. (Ok, actually, some do but that one in Ogunquit, Maine told me I was having two boys and a girl. WRONG! So don’t be trolling for info there. That crystal ball is straight up busted.) I think you gotta keep on putting one foot in front of the other….trying, hoping, wishing, planning, shoe shopping. (Ok, shoe shopping is very therapeutic. I stand by shoe shopping. Always.) I sincerely hope you find the peace and happiness you deserve, and that some day someone will be wishing you a Happy Mother’s Day.

(And if you see that guy from the cookout…..I think it’s about time someone spit in his drink. Just a thought. If you feel inclined….)

One fish, two fish, gold fish, dead fish.

This one has a little scar.

This one doesn’t know who you are.

Some look like they hit the bar.

Some don’t seem to swim too far.

Why, this one has a big old head.

Oh shit, that one looks a little dead.

And him! And he! And her! And she! Make four more!

By crickey I’ll get that fracky fish store!

From here to there, and there to here, dead fish, dead fish are everywhere.

And oh dear God, what’s that smell in here???

Once upon a time, there was a family with three boys. They all had assorted allergies. One day, the oldest boy caught the mama in a moment of weakness. She might have been detoxing from cream , dizzy from lunges, or possibly, under the spell of Michelob Ultra Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights. Who really knows?

So she grinned, “Sure, why not? We can get some fish.” It’ll be fun, she thought. It’s probably the one pet none of us are allergic to, she reasoned. They’re cheap, they’re easy (we’re still talking fish here, just everyone forget Charlie Sheen for a minute, for the love of God! ). Most importantly, she figured having fish would teach the boys some responsibility. (That? Was a stretch, considering these are the boys who litter her home with used, dirty socks.)

Truthfully, visions of Nemo swam in her head.

SERIOUSLY? HE'S PRETTY AWESOME.

This is how it all went down.

Crime table:

SATURDAY, NOONISH, EST:  The five fish buyers march off to the the pet store (rhymes with PetHO) to get their fish on! They are told by the fishie authorities (20 year olds in bad PetHo garb who were maybe definitely sniffing glue from the office supply store on their break) they needed a 10 gallon aquarium for five fish, and they would need to fill it up, do what the instructions said, and then bring in a water sample 24 hours later. If  the water passed the stringent PetHo test, they could buy fish the next day. Whining and boos ensue from the peanut gallery, until hubs tells wifey to lighten up. After getting over the shock of  dropping $85.94 on the aquarium, black rock, mini sculpture, rock garden, Spongebob pineapple (husband!),  and three bags of HOT RAINBOW (we are the world) rocks, they depart!  $86 smackers, no fishies. Hmph.

Wifey flees to the grocery store while hubs misses watching riveting golf on tv, while he painstakingly rinses three bags of tiny rainbow rocks per instructions, washes, and fills fish tank aka aquarium in the name of dadhood. Older boys take turns flicking the tank light on and off while 2 year old squeals, “Fizz! Fizz!” (Fish!) even though, there are no fish in the newly tricked out Fish Ritz.

NOT TOO SHABBY? P.S. IT WAS NOT ON ITS SIDE IN REAL LIFE. ALSO? DON'T JUDGE ME FOR THE BLUE DRESSER AND GREEN WALLS....THIS ROOM IS CURRENTLY UNDERGOING CHANGES!

THIS IS THE $9.99 JOBBIE I THOUGHT WE'D BE GETTING, NOT SOME TRICKED OUT FISHED OUT PINEAPPLE PALACE!

SUNDAY, 4 PM EST:

After a raging snowstorm dies out, the family trudge to PetHo to claim their charges, h20 sample in hand. After a brief water test and consultation with the esteemed “Fishcare for Dummies” book (could I even make that up?) it was determined by PetHo the water was a little hard, but would be okay. (Side note: Does anyone else find it ironic you need to prove you have a decent home for fish to glue sniffers at PetHo, when dummies who don’t know to come in from the rain bring babies home from nurseries with no cred every single day? My head hurts.) Anyhoo, with much fanfare, the fam each chooses a fish and quickly heads home with: Mario, Sonic, Fizz, Bubba, and Lady Gaga. (She kind of had a poker face and was translucent like a funky egg. What can I say?)

Damage: $27.13

For a few short hours, the family enjoys watching the fab five swimming happily, munching on fish flakes. The dad even remarks it’s soothing to watch them. The kids wave goodnight to the fish and blow kisses. Aww.

LADY GAGA---FULL OF AWESOME. SNIFF.

MONDAY, 6 AM, EST:

The family runs in to check on the fish. Lady Gaga is slumped against the filter. Daddy tells mummy Lady G. must be sleeping. Mummy wonders if she just had a rough night, like her namesake.

8 AM EST:

Mummy peeks in. Lady G. is still motionless, and oh look, now Mario has joined her by the pole. Something seems fishy.

9 AM EST:

Sonic is partying on the pole with Lady G and Mario. Duh, duh, duh. Another one bites the dust. It’s obvious…these fish…were swimming with the fishes…wait, what? I mean, NOT swimming with the fishes, but “swimming with the fishes”. Okay, they were dead.

12 PM EST: Back from picking up oldest at school and quick errand. Run in to check whilst holding breath. “Mommy, all the fishies but Bubba are sleeping. They must be nocturnal!” That’s right, son. You are a smart boy. RIP, Fizz. *Cries inside—I’ll get you, you glue sniffing rat bastards!*

You know where this is going because you don’t sniff glue, yes? By 4PM, EST, Monday, all of the fab five are gone. GONE!

Despite their best efforts to provide a lovely ecosytem, the mom questions if she led the fish into a death trap–a veritable fish fry. Or were these PetHo fish doomed from the start? The dad wonders what they’ll say. Ultimately they decide it’s too cruel to tell the boys all their fish died when they only enjoyed them a few short hours, so the dad tells them the fish are obviously sick since they’ve been lying around all day, and said he’d bring them back to the fish store and leave them with the fish doctor for a few days.

And now, they wait….the tank has been largely replenished with spring water, new drops, and is cycling for a few days, whereupon, the fam will get new fishies….at…rhymes with Pet-Tart.

God save the queen fishes!